


Anniversary Celebration

by Rizobact



Series: Curb Finds [34]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bingo Prompts, Ficlets, M/M, ProwlxJazz10thAnniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-31 07:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12127509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact
Summary: Ficlets for the PxJ Anniversary bingo event on DW.





	1. Anger Management

It took Jazz rather aback the first time he saw it. Not because he didn’t know perfectly well that mechs needed to blow off some steam from time to time. But there were patterns, common threads linking certain mechs to certain methods of blowing off said steam. He could usually anticipate who preferred to decompress by going out and drinking, sparring, or fragging (or some combination of all three) and who preferred to stay in with a good book- or vid-file.

Usually.

_ Knock, kno—  _

_ CRASH!!! _

Jazz froze mid-knock at the open door, arm hovering where he’d been rapping to announce himself as Prowl —  _ Prowl,  _ of all mechs! — went from sitting calmly behind his desk to standing abruptly, sending the piece of furniture and all its contents flying across the room in the process. The desk landed on its side atop scattered datapads and flimsy sheets. A stylus spun slowly in place, the soft sound echoing in the profound quiet that followed particularly loud noises. 

The single fluid motion had been swift, violent, and impressively economical. It was obvious Prowl had done this many, many times before.

“So…” Jazz finally ventured after a long moment of watching Prowl just standing there, surveying the destruction. “This’s how you calm down, huh?” 

“Is that a problem?” Prowl turned slowly to meet Jazz’s visor. “It is my office. My desk. What I do with them is my business.”

“Sure!” Jazz agreed quickly. “Your desk, your business, no problem. I just…”

“Just… what?”

“Just didn’t figure ya for the type.” Then again, he also hadn’t pegged Ratchet for throwing things at people with an aim to rival Bluestreak’s. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

Prowl frowned. “Is there an actual reason for your visit, Jazz? Or are you just here to comment on the incongruity of my personal anger management techniques?”

“Hey, who cares about incongruity as long as it's effective?” Jazz quirked a smile. “It  _ is  _ effective, right?”

“Why don’t you come in,” Prowl offered, walking over to his desk and righting it, “and find out.”

Jazz’s smile only widened as he crossed the threshold.


	2. Romantic Entanglement

“So there’s this mech I really like,” Jazz began, strolling boldly across Prowl’s office to perch himself on the corner of his desk.

Prowl didn’t even look up from his work. “I fail to see how this concerns me,” he said in a bored tone. “You know I have no interest whatsoever in your romantic entanglements.”

“Ohhh, you’ll have an interest in this one,” Jazz promised. “You have a lot in common! He’s generally pretty quiet and reserved, for one thing. Clever, too! He likes to play strategy games and read in his spare time.”

“Really? I didn’t think that was your type.”

“I don’t have a type,” Jazz denied, though his recent conquests had been converging on a particular set of traits. It hadn’t been a conscious thing on his part at first, but once he’d realised what he was doing — and more importantly, why — he’d decided to go ahead and bite the bullet. “I have someone I like that I thought I didn’t have a chance with so I was tryin’ to settle for the next best thing.”

“I’ve never known you to settle for anything.” Prowl finally looked up, curiosity and concern written on his face. “Are you telling me this because you want to finally get serious with someone and you’re… nervous?”

“That might be part of it,” Jazz hedged, definitely feeling a little bit nervous now that he was about to finally lay his cards out on the table— er, desk. “That, and I was kind of hoping you might tell me if a mech like you’d ever be interested in a mech like me.”

Prowl went still. “Jazz,” he said very carefully, “whoever you’re interested in, he’d be a fool not to at least give you a chance.”

“Well, in that case…” Jazz slid off his corner and stood facing Prowl.  _ Please, please let his not liking talk about my love life be because he wishes it was him like Mirage said…  _ “I guess I just have one question for ya then.”

“And what,” Prowl looked up at him, his expression tight and withdrawn, “would that be?”

Jazz’s confidence wavered but he pressed on, his trademark grin melting down into something softer, smaller, more vulnerable. “Are you a fool, Prowl?”

For a painfully long moment Prowl just stared at him, completely unmoving. Jazz forced himself to wait, to give it a chance, even though each second felt like a weight crushing his spark.

Then Prowl slowly, deliberately, reached out and took his hand. “I don’t believe anyone has ever called me fool in my entire life,” he said with a quiet smile, “and I won’t have them starting now.”


	3. First Light

Prowl had lost track of how long he’d been trapped under the debris of the collapsed causeway. At least a full day, that much he was sure of. The rescue crews had inadvertently shifted the rubble and caused a secondary collapse on the second day and he’d lost consciousness for a while, coming back online to a broken chronometer among his numerous other injuries.

He’d radioed in his position when the “accident” had happened (he knew they were calling it an accident, despite known Decepticon involvement). Sections of Iacon’s multi-tiered highway system didn’t just  _ collapse; _ not without the aid of explosives. That was what he’d been doing there in the first place, trying to apprehend the mech setting them. He’d been too late, obviously, though his presence had precipitated an early detonation. The knowledge that he had prevented thousands of innocent civilians from being killed by the bomb going off during peak traffic was comforting as he lay alone in the dark. He just wished they’d been able to evacuate the roads entirely. There had still been so many casualties, including himself if they didn’t find him soon.

Wait. Was that someone outside? He thought he could hear… “—ello! Anyone down there?”

Not confident in his ability to shout through however many tons of rubble were balanced precariously above him, Prowl switched on his damaged comm unit. It only produced static, but by flicking the system on and off he was able to broadcast a short binary signal. Hopefully the rescuers were scanning for frequencies in addition to calling… 

“Gotcha!” came the relieved confirmation. “Keep doin’ that if ya can! We’re almost to ya!”

_ Thank Primus. _

The noises got louder as the rescuers got closer. Metal groaned and squealed above him, and Prowl tried not to let himself dwell on the possibility of a third collapse each time he felt the material around him tremble. He didn’t think he’d live through another one, damaged as he already was. If it weren’t for the energon loss, which was enough by now for his processors to be slowing significantly, he’d be in agony from everything he’d already endured.

“His signal’s fading! We gotta get ‘im out now!” the voice outside yelled, tantalizingly close. “Hang on, alright? Just one more big piece’n we’ll be able to get ya out!”

_ o… kay…  _ Prowl could feel himself losing consciousness again. He just hoped they could reach him in time for him to wake up on this side of the Well… 

Light suddenly broke through the blackness surrounding him, a sliver of white cracking it open like a shell and splitting it as the twisted slab covering him was lifted away. After so long in the dark it was blinding, and Prowl found himself blinking in an effort to see anything. Finally the bright white receded, leaving behind a band of vivid blue set in the face of a small black and white policemech. “Hey,” he said with a brilliant smile. “Let’s get you outta there.”


	4. Living and Loving

“Living” wasn’t something either Prowl or Jazz felt they had done since their home had been destroyed. True, they still functioned. Their processors still ran the routines that kept their frames moving. But in their sparks, they hadn’t been alive for a long, long time.

It had been something of a relief for them to discover the other felt the same. After hiding what others called fatalistic, morbid, depressed, unhealthy mindsets for so long, it was reaffirming to know they weren’t alone in not wanting to “live” with the war. How could the others do it? Blending the lives of a civilian and a soldier because they were “tired” of fighting all the time… how did that help anything? Making the conflict more tolerable did nothing to help bring it to an end. All it did was normalize it, make things that should be unacceptable commonplace. It prolonged the war. Unable, unwilling to accept, they drew defensively closer and closer as the others continued to do just that.

Others called it love, what they shared. They saw the two of them spending more and more time together, more and more time together  _ alone, _ and assumed they were finally doing something other than obsessing over the war — namely, each other. Jazz and Prowl ignored the crude remarks and needling innuendos. Let them say what they wanted; theirs was a union born of necessity. What mattered was that they made each other more effective, that they had each other to remind themselves that what they were doing wasn’t crazy. They weren’t looking for affection. They were looking for a way to end the war, for good and all.

And if they sometimes passed out from pushing too hard and wound up leaning against each other in recharge, it was just a physical mirror of the way they leaned on each other mentally. A confirmation of the closeness they felt with no one else, still only a shadow of what they’d been capable of when they were still alive.

Sometimes they would look at each other and wonder. Would the day ever come when they could live again? Would they look at each other then and discover the love everyone said was already there? Or would they be too different when they were once again more than their wartime shells? It wasn’t fair to say they loved each other now. Not when all they knew of each other was the soldiers they’d become when Cybertron died.

In moments of weariness, when the war began to weigh too heavily, those thoughts saved them. When Jazz wanted to give up and never move again, when Prowl wanted to accept that it would never be over and just stop, the unanswered questions kept them going. A ghost couldn’t love a ghost. Only the living could love. They could only know what they truly felt for each other by fighting on until the end.

So perhaps it was love after all.

The love that kept them living.


	5. Champion

He hadn’t come with the intent of being their champion, but when the townsfolk approached Prowl with their pleas, he found himself unable to refuse them. The nearby valley where they claimed a strange beast had taken up residence wasn’t on his planned route, but he knew they wouldn’t survive the coming winter if something wasn’t done. Large mechanimals over-predating an already impoverished town could be a death sentence, and the state of the solitary inn and its proprietor said more than words about the current state of affairs.

If he’d had the coin to spare, he’d have spent more in the meager market. Fortunately, while he was as penny-poor as they, he was in better repair and possessed skills and tools they did not. His sword was as sharp as his skill with it, and he promised he would do his utmost to rid them of their scourge.

He set out with the first rays of the sun, well-worn but well-kept armor shining in the weak light. The journey wasn't a long one, but he walked instead of driving to spare his suspension the condition of the road. It wouldn't do to blow out a tire this far from a suitable replacement.

Slowly the ground sloped downward, winding its way into a valley carved by what must have once been a powerful stream. Now all that remained was a small creek that ran sluggishly between the rocks, withered and tired like the rest of the region. Still, the trickle of ammonia-laced solvent kept the dust damp enough to hold tracks, and Prowl got his first evidence that the townsfolk hadn't been exaggerating: deep gouges lined the riverbed, marking the footprints of a large creature with truly impressive claws. He was no ranger; had, in fact, never trained as anything other than a knight before— before. Even so, it was clear he was up against something sizeable that moved on four legs, with a long tail that swept the ground. Combine that with the descriptions he'd gotten in town, and Prowl knew what he was likely facing.

"Dragon."

"Rude!"

Prowl jumped at the unexpected voice, scrambling back as what he'd _thought_ was a cairn of mottled river rock shuddered and stood. Shapes and colors resolved into the body, wings, and face of a silver-speckled dragon, staring at him through a solid optic band. "I have a name. Calling me 'dragon' is just plain rude."

"My apologies," Prowl said quickly, careful to hold his arms neutrally at his sides. Going for his sword now was a quick way to get himself roasted (or melted, if this dragon spat acid rather than fire), and besides, if it was old enough to talk, perhaps a solution other than violence could be found. "I was thinking out loud, not addressing you. I didn't see you laying there."

"Cuz you weren't looking," the dragon said with a short bob of its head. "Easiest kind of hunting there is, just sit still until dinner comes to you."

"I suppose I should count myself lucky I don't look like dinner."

The dragon smiled a grin full of teeth. Not exactly comforting. "Lucky for both of us, since someone to talk to's a lot rarer than something to eat. Not that there's a whole lot to eat around here," it complained.

Prowl saw an opportunity. "Why not move on then?" he suggested, hoping to encourage it to leave. "If there isn't enough here to sustain you now, it will only be worse when winter begins."

"I know, but..." The dragon flopped back down along the riverbed, the impact of its weight hitting the ground reverberating up Prowl's legs. "I can't. Something chased me in here and starts shooting lightning at me every time I try to fly away."

"Something... a wizard?" Prowl guessed. Well. He already hadn't planned on being the townsfolk's champion; why not a dragon's as well? "What if I took care of that for you? Then you could fly home and spend the winter with your family."

"Really?" The swept-back silver frills along the sides of its head perked up, fanning out like a crest. "You'd do that for me?"

"For you, and for the village," Prowl admitted. "They will not survive the winter with you here eating what little there is to be hunted. If I can help you return home, it will help them as well."

"Ah. In that case, might as well get going." The dragon stood again, shaking out its wings. "Should tell me what to call you, if you're going to be my hero and slay an evil wizard for me."

"Prowl," Prowl answered. "My name is Prowl."

"Pleased to meet you, Prowl," the dragon smiled again, and somehow the teeth weren't as intimidating this time. "My name is Jazz."


End file.
